


Maveth

by Tobalerone



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Deadpool Thought Boxes, Gen, Gore, Guilt, Major character death- Freeform, Mental Instability, Peter's shit is absolutely not together, Tragedy, neither is Wade's tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10142024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tobalerone/pseuds/Tobalerone
Summary: Spin-off to CAPSING’s story, Bishgada, in which one crucial moment in Spider-man’s fight with Deadpool goes just a bit differently.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bishgada](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431223) by [CAPSING](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAPSING/pseuds/CAPSING). 



> Begins right after the sentence “His right leg lashes out on its own, sending an uncoordinated kick that hits at the dead center of Deadpool's chest.”

**Peter**

Peter’s kick lands milliseconds too late. Deadpool’s manubrium shatters, but his blade has already punctured the delicate flesh beneath Peter’s ribs.

It doesn’t matter that Deadpool’s hands have already begun to unclench—the momentum of the thrust carries the blade forward in a devastating linear angle, not just piercing, but shish-kabobing his left lung.

For a moment, stumbling and landing in a graceless heap, Peter doesn’t realize what has happened.

In a painless daze, where his body’s numb and his mind sluggish, his first thought isn’t “I’ve been stabbed” but rather “I think I just killed a man.”

“I think I just killed a man,” he chokes, voicing the thought out-loud, perhaps again, perhaps for the first time. He doesn’t know.

All he does know is that Deadpool’s bones are jutting out of his body—shards of gleaming white contrasted by bold red, like some horrific piece of art—and _he did that_.

He tries to get up, overcome by the need to go to Deadpool’s side and somehow fix this mess, and is harshly reminded that he’s not unscathed, either.

The numbness of his body recedes as quickly as it had appeared, chased away by a burning sensation so intense it makes his vision blur.

Peter gasps, dizzy and lightheaded, trying to figure out what to do. But he can’t concentrate, and now he’s feeling so cold he’s shaking. The numbness is back.

The different sensations are enough to give Peter a whiplash.

But this isn’t the first time he’s been on the brink of death, and he wouldn’t have made it this far as a superhero if a stab wound was enough to stop him from helping someone in need.

He takes an awkward step forward, finds his gait impaired by the katana sticking out of his left deltoid, and tears it from his body.

It burns on the way out, as though he’s removing fire instead of steel. Following it is a gush of warmth, and for one delirious moment he thinks that there’s soot spilling out of him, chasing the flames. But then reality comes crushing back and the warmth, much too slick to be soot, is blood.

Obviously. Of course. Why the fuck would there be soot gushing out of him?

Peter laughs, a little hysterically. It’s much too wet a sound to mean anything good.

He aims his web-shooters at the gaping wound, hoping to stem the blood flow long enough to get both himself and Deadpool help.

Only, the web-shooters make a sputtering, hissing noise, and he remembers part of the reason why he was in this mess in the first place.

His web-shooters are out.

And, shit, maybe he shouldn’t have pulled the sword out, because now he’s gonna bleed out.

The beginning of panic flutters in his chest, but he shakes it off, and it’s lost amidst the ever-growing numbness. He’ll be fine.

He’s Spider-man, after all. He’s been in worse situations, and he’s always turned out fine.

Besides, checking on Deadpool is more important. It’s something he _has_ to do. Something Uncle Ben would do. The desire to help, to fix, fills his body faster than blood fills his lungs, overwhelming him.

Peter can’t have killed him—never mind that, if he did, the favor is a-bit-more-blood-loss-away from being returned, never mind that the kick had been in self-defense, and never mind that Deadpool is immortal, anyway. Killing is never the answer.

Peter stumbles towards the crumpled mercenary, every step an awkward lurch, like a marionette with one too many broken strings.

The closer Peter gets, the worse Deadpool looks.

Deadpool's listless mass is sitting in a puddle of blood that's expending by the minute. There's a significant splatter of blood on the small crater on the wall behind him.  Bones are jutting out from everywhere, ripping out of the suit, and Peter's never seen someone's head hang from their neck in this angle.

And, fuck, _Peter did that._

It’s suddenly too much, and Peter throws up. The force of it sends him reeling into the ground, splaying in his own vomit. Except, it’s more blood than bile, and his mouth tastes more metallic than sour.

Taking longer than he can afford to reorient himself, Peter eventually manages to push himself onto his hands and knees. The ground beneath his hands is sick with blood, burning in comparison to his progressively cooling skin. His arms tremble with the effort. The task is more difficult than it should be— much too difficult for somebody who, under normal circumstances, could probably bench-press a semi-truck.

He lets out a shuddering breath—really more a gurgle than a breath— and focuses his attention on the mercenary.

Peter is still about a couple of feet away from Deadpool. But that’s close enough. Close enough for his ears to hear that Deadpool’s heart is not beating. Close enough for his eyes to see that his chest is not expanding to let in air.

Close enough to know, beyond any doubt, that Deadpool is dead.

A sort of exhaustion overcomes Peter at this knowledge, this confirmation of what he’s done. Suddenly, he’s too tired to get up and try again. The numbness and coldness are too much to fight anymore.

His arms give in, and he’s sprawled on the ground again, the mounting pool of blood and sick so deep he almost breaths it in with each shallow pant. Like lying face down in a puddle of rain, only more horrific.

He knows, with sudden clarity, that he was going to die, here, now, and with no hope of fixing anything or anyone. Least of all Deadpool. Least of all himself.

Despair weighs down on him, enough to crush him, and yet he starts laughing again.

His shaking shoulders cause discomfort and he wheezes and coughs up blood between each strained giggle—but, God, he just can’t help it.

Because it just fucking _figures_ that this would be the end to his already terrible day. Because that’s his life.

Because he can’t catch a fucking break.

He wonders if his loved ones will forgive him for dying a killer. And it’s his last thought.

**Wade**

Wade wakes up with a groan and a “damn, baby boy, that sure was one helluva kick!”

There’s no response, and Wade figures that Spidey has already up and left. Which, who could blame him?

Hell, if he could, Wade would up and leave himself, too.

_And, let’s not forget, we did try to kill him._

White’s helpful reminder brings Wade up short. His hands, which had automatically begun resetting bones, still.

“No,” Wade says, because that can’t be right. That can’t be right at all. Wade wouldn’t hurt Spidey, for all he’s considered it in the past. Spidey is his friend, and, more to the point, Spidey is a kid.

Wade does a lot of deplorable things as Deadpool, but he wouldn’t hurt a kid.

_Yes, you would. You have. Take a look around._

Reluctantly, Wade looks. Wade looks, and sees red. Red spandex. Red blood.

A _lot_ of blood—too much.

And Wade has killed enough people to know too much blood when he sees it.

White’s impressed whistle echoes in his mind, and Wade can understand the sentiment.

It really gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “blood bath.”

Wade shifts closer to the body, and it doesn’t take that much moving at all until he’s practically right beside it—and what was Spidey doing so close to him, anyway? Surely, he’d try to get away from his killer, not move closer.

But the trail of blood says otherwise— indicates that the kid was, indeed, trying to come to him.

_Oh, Spidey, I didn’t know you cared so!_

Yellow’s croon makes Wade _flinch_ , as though it were a physical blow. Yellow continues, sensing weakness and relentless because of it.

_It’s why he’s dead, isn’t it? He didn’t know to keep his distance from us._

“Shut up!” Wade snaps, looking down at the face, all too young. Spidey’s cheeks still have a bit of baby fat on them.

_You know it’s true. We destroy everything good, kid or not. Really, it was only a matter of time._

“Shut up,” Wade says again, whispering this time. His eyes sting, and, when he feels the inevitable fall of tears, he can’t bring himself to wipe them off. Self-hatred burns hot and familiar in Wade’s gut.

“Maybe… I could bring his body back home to his grandma, or whoever she is. Looked old enough to be his grandma. Spidey probably wouldn’t want her to find out about it on the news…” Deadpool rambles, and White cuts him off, scorn palpable.  

_Yeah, and say what?_

_‘Oh, hey, Mrs. Parker, just dropping by to drop off your grandson. Who’s Spider-man, by the way, and dead. Because I killed him. I’ve had a change of heart, though, and decided to bring him home to express that. But, enough of that, how are you? Do watch the Golden Girls, by chance?’_

_Yeah, ‘cause that’ll go over well._

As much as Wade hates to admit it, White does have a point.  

As he leaves the body where it is, Yellow’s mocking laughter rings in his ears. 

**Author's Note:**

> Aye, so it's like 9 months after I said I would, but I did get around to finishing this spin-off.  
> Also, Aramaic is an obscure ass language and fuck trying to find any word in it. I think the title means death in Hebrew, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. I tried.


End file.
